family

She is a soldier,
a warrior in the quiet moments,
fighting battles not of her choosing,
but of necessity,
holding the weight of the world
on her shoulders,
so that we, her daughters,
might walk a little lighter.

A mother and a father,
she wears both roles with quiet grace,
never asking for applause,
never seeking praise,
she simply does.

She is the artist,
painting our lives with love,
with lessons learned through fire
and scars borne with pride,
forging the strength of ten
in the heart of one.

Mary, Queen of Bucks, with beauty sharp as fate,
A painted smile, a poisoned crown, she’d wait.
From velvet lies to whispered tongues of power,
Her hand would grasp, and kingdoms would devour.

A tempest in a lace-edged gown, so sweet,
She danced upon the backs of men’s defeat.
Her lover’s eyes—how they bent to her whim,
Yet in her mirror, shadows grew so grim.

Upon the bridge where swords met steel and fate,
In Finea’s mist, where river waters weep,
There stood a man, a prince in name and soul,
Myles O’Reilly, Slasher of the foe.

Descended from the kings of old Breifne,
A chieftain’s blood ran strong within his veins,
With Ireland’s pride aflame within his heart,
He dared to stand, though England pressed him low.

They called him but a man, yet giants fell,
The Scottish beast cut down with but one stroke.
His blade, a flash of vengeance in the dusk,
An iron whisper sung in rebel hands.

Did you forget about me?
Because the phone never rings,
No words, no care, no space for me,
Just because I cut my strings.

Did you forget about me?
Love? Oh, that’s just a line,
Because if you’re poor, or different.
Then you’re ignored and left behind.

Did you forget about me
‘Cause in your eyes, I’m a mess?
A misfit in your perfect show,
Yes, I’m a failure, I confess.

Did you forget about me?
When you cut me, no second chance.
Is it because I dared to criticise,
And wouldn’t take part in your dance?

In my dream, I fell through the floor,
Whispers of a father I can’t ignore.
His hands were warm, but his eyes were cold,
Behind that mask, a truth untold.

I reached for him, but he slipped away,
A shadow where his love should stay.
A laugh that shattered, sharp and cruel,
The mask of love, a twisted fool.

Am I alive, or just a ghost he made?
I can’t recall the promises he betrayed.
All that’s left is the hollow air,
But the mask? Oh, it lingers there.

O Little Robin, who follows me close,
I know your soul, it warms my heart.
You are here with me once again,
It was never goodbye, only see you soon.
And here you are with your new-found wings.
Hello, my cheeky monkey.

These are poems for children and poems about children and their mothers, fathers, grandmother, grandfathers and extended families. 

The Desk
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

There is a child I used to know
who sat, perhaps, at this same desk
where you sit now, and made a mess
of things sometimes.I wonder how
he learned at all...

The Poet will publish my poem, “My Mother’s History” in an upcoming anthology on Cultural Identity.  My ethnic background is a bit complicated.  Depending upon how I look at it, I have 18 to 20 nationalities in my tangled family DNA. 

The Celtic Cross at Île Grosse
by Michael R. Burch

“I actually visited the island and walked across those mass graves [of 30,000 Irish men, women and children], and I played a little tune on me whistle. I found it very peaceful, and there was relief there.” – Paddy Maloney of The Chieftains

There was relief there,
and release,
on Île Grosse
in the spreading gorse
and the cry of the wild geese . . .

These are poems for fathers and grandfathers, written by Michael R. Burch.

Sunset
by Michael R. Burch
       
This poem is dedicated to my grandfather, George Edwin Hurt Sr.

Between the prophecies of morning
and twilight’s revelations of wonder,
the sky is ripped asunder.

The moon lurks in the clouds,
waiting, as if to plunder
the dusk of its lilac iridescence,

and in the bright-tentacled sunset
we imagine a presence
full of the fury of lost innocence.